


You're The Antidote To Everything (Except For Me)

by Ricechex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 Fundraiser Auction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricechex/pseuds/Ricechex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The gunshot is a surprise. So is the somehow not so dead man that pulls him down to the floor.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>John stares and stares and cannot make sense of what his eyes are seeing as his brain screams that this is not possible.</i>
</p><p>****** </p><p>Written for Chapbook/Songster, who won me in the AO3 Fundraiser Auction, April 2013. Prompt was more of guidelines - Keep things S3 SPoiler-Free, no painplay/watersports/scat/zombies, Sherlock/John pairing preferred. </p><p>Story is Post-S2 Reunion Fic. Angsty, but with a happy(ish, mostly, like 99% happy) ending. And hey, no one dies! *thumbs up*</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're The Antidote To Everything (Except For Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChapBook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChapBook/gifts).



The gunshot is a surprise. So is the somehow not so dead man that pulls him down to the floor.

“John, we have to go, now.”

John stares and stares and cannot make sense of what his eyes are seeing as his brain screams that this is not possible.

“…Sherlock?” His voice shakes only a little as his breath catches. “Fucking… _Sherlock_?”

Sherlock looks at him, eyes wide and curious. “John, I know this is-”

John reaches out and touches him, just a brush of fingertips on that familiar face, and swears again.

“John, we _need_ to go, I’ll explain-”

Another gunshot rings out, dull and muted by comparison, and the noise of the bar comes back to John slowly. He looks around, seeing people hiding under tables, clinging to one another, crying. No one appears to be hurt, though, and the doctor side of John retreats for a moment. He looks back at Sherlock as another bullet hits the front of the bar, inches from his head.

“ _Jesus_ , what the fuck-”

Sherlock grabs the shoulder of his jacket and pulls, surprisingly strong, and John begins to scramble with his feet and hands, trying to get up and out, but Sherlock keeps hold of him and forces him to stay down.

“John!” John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes. He looks sad, and scared, and like everything that Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, should never, _ever_ be. He pulls John closer, their faces so close John can almost taste Sherlock as he breathes out. “Those shots are after _you_.”

And before John can say anything, Sherlock scoots backwards, pulling him along the floor like an old blanket. He catches on, listening for more gun shots as he pushes himself on his belly. The only sounds that greet his ears are the sound of terrified people nearby and Sherlock’s voice, low and soothing and utterly _infuriating_ if he’s being honest.

Sherlock looks behind himself, then back at John, eyes narrowed in concentration and determination. “We need to get through that swinging door, and out the back. Once through this door, we can stand and run, and we cannot look back. Do you understand, John?”

John licks his lips and swallows and thinks he’s had far too many drinks tonight, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, yeah I can do that.”

Sherlock stares at him for just a second, then nods once. “Good. On my signal, we get through that door and out. Ready?”

John nods again. “Yeah.”

Sherlock allows himself to grin, just a small one. “Now!”

John scrambles forward, nearly treading on Sherlock’s coattails. Another shot rings out, missing them both as they push through the door. They’re in a small prep area, filled with boxes of booze and a small crate of produce for the drinks. There’s another door just ahead, and John runs as fast as he can, Sherlock smacking into the door with his whole left side to open it. The air outside is cold and crisp and John wants to pause, wants to take a deep breath because _fucking hell_ he’s alive. Instead, he keeps running, following Sherlock through alleys until suddenly, Sherlock drops down to the ground, lifting a manhole cover. “Quickly, John!”

John doesn’t stop, doesn’t question it, just finds the ladder rungs and shimmies down as quickly as possible. He can hear pounding footsteps echoing loudly - someone’s following them. His heart is beating like it might explode, and for a moment he wonders if Sherlock’s going to stay up there all night. Then Sherlock’s coming down, the manhole is covering them up again, and Sherlock is pressing him against the wall with his entire body, a hand over his mouth and the other holding one finger to his own lips. John nods shakily and Sherlock takes his hand away.

The footsteps get closer, closer, right on top of them… and the grow farther away, steadily leaving them behind.

John closes his eyes and begins to shake all over. His brain provides the oh-so-helpful notion that this is shock - he’s in shock.

He bites his own tongue to keep from laughing, leaning forward until his head is resting against Sherlock’s shoulder.

They stand there for a while, not moving, barely breathing, until Sherlock finally steps away. He beckons with one hand, and begins slowly working his way through the tunnels. John says nothing, following like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He can still remember the time when it was.

They go for almost half an hour, Sherlock leading them along without hesitation, before Sherlock lets out a long breath. “We should be safe to talk now.” His voice is low and quiet and John almost misses it completely.

He looks up from the ground, and sees Sherlock looking back at him over his shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

Sherlock licks his lips and turns around.

“I saw you. I watched you jump.”

“You had to believe it.”

John reaches and grabs Sherlock’s arm, whirls him around before grabbing his shoulders and slamming him against the wall. Sherlock’s breath whooshes out suddenly, and John glares at him.

“I. Saw. You.”

Sherlock puts his hands on John’s but doesn’t pull at them, doesn’t do anything more than hold onto them. “If I could have spared you the pain, John, I would have.”

John growls and shoves at Sherlock, his hands falling away so fast they bring Sherlock’s with them for a second. John stands and breathes and finally looks away.

“So where are we going?”

Sherlock steps away from the wall and looks around. “Somewhere safe.” He runs a hand through his hair. “John-”

“Lead on, then.” John turns away and waits.

Sherlock says nothing as he begins to walk.

+++

They end up coming out of the sewers after another twenty minutes, Sherlock sliding the cover aside carefully and looking around before popping up onto the street and holding his hands out for John. John takes them as he climbs and denies the feeling of rightness that thrills through him at the contact.

Sherlock leads him to a small door on the side of a building, knocking three times and waiting.

The door opens and John looks at a rather handsome man with curly red hair and glasses.

“Sherlock.”

“Victor.”

The man steps back, and Sherlock grabs John’s hand and pulls him along. The door swings shut behind them, and they turn back to Victor.

“My god.”

Sherlock lets go of John’s hand and shoves his fists into his coat pockets. John stands up a bit straighter and waits.

“We had nowhere else.”

Victor licks his lips and nods, eyes finding John. He holds out his right hand. “Victor Trevor. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

John takes his hand and shakes it. “John, please.”

Victor nods, taking a deep breath. “You look positively dead on your feet.” He looks between them. “One room, or two?”

Sherlock says, “One,” just as John says, “Two.” Sherlock tenses. John lowers his gaze and glares at the floor.

Victor lets out a long breath. “Right, two rooms then.” He brushes past them. “Follow me.”

John turns without waiting for Sherlock, though his presence at John’s back is not something he can ignore. Victor leads them up a set of stairs, stopping at the first room on his right and opening the door.

“This one has a bathroom-”

“John can have it.”

John blinks at Sherlock’s quick acquiescence, then nods. “Thanks.”

Victor points at a small dresser. “There’s towels in the top drawer, and some general purpose sweatpants and t-shirts in the second.”

John steps in and nods. “Right.” He turns and looks back at Victor holding out his hand again. Victor shakes it.

“Get some sleep.”

John doesn’t say anything, but he does finally meet Sherlock’s eyes again. Sherlock stares back until Victor walks away, and then follows him. John closes the door, and lets himself fall apart just a little.

 _It_ _’s just shock_ , he thinks. _Just shock_.

He closes his eyes and tries not to cry.

+++

John’s still in shock when he steps out of the small bathroom, his skin damp and warm from the shower. Sherlock’s sitting on his bed, hands clasped in his lap, watching him. His hair is damp, and he smells better than before.

John stares at him, still angry, still confused, still so many things that he doesn’t quite know what to say, so he says something he’s certain he’ll regret later.

“Get out.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen as he stares at him, and John grits his teeth and glares.

“Something wrong with your hearing, mate? Get. Out.”

Sherlock blinks, opens his mouth, then stands and disappears out of John’s room with a whirl of his coattails.

John stands in the suddenly too-large room and begins to shake.

+++

He falls asleep and wakes an hour or so later, rolling over to see a small note on his pillow.

In Sherlock’s untidy scrawl, it says, _I_ _’m sorry._

John crumples it in his hand and rolls back over. He falls asleep again still clutching it tightly.

+++

When he wakes again, it’s to the sound of his phone ringing. He blinks himself awake and grabs the phone, squinting at the screen.

_Mycroft._

He silences the ringer and gets up, grabbing clean clothes and getting dressed. His phone chimes a minute later.

[ _We need to talk, John. Childish games are not advisable. -Mycroft_ ]

John ignores the text and pockets his phone. He steps out of his room and is greeted with the smell of breakfast.

He quietly pads down the stairs, following his nose to the kitchen. He sees Victor standing at the stove, stirring something he really hopes is eggs, and his stomach gurgles appreciatively.

Victor turns at the sound, smiling softly. “Good morning, John. Sleep well?”

John shrugs and does not smile. “Well enough after… yesterday.” He swallows. “Don’t suppose there’s… enough for me?”

Victor beams as he turns back to his task. “More than, really.” He scoops the pan off the burner and dishes out a large helping of eggs onto a plate that already has bacon, sausage, and toast. He picks it up and holds it out to John. “Please.”

John takes the plate with a nod, walking over to the small table and sitting down. There are utensils laid out, as well as several small dishes of jams and cream. He takes care to spread some jam on his toast, the smell of it making his mouth water. When he bites into it, he closes his eyes and lets out a nearly inaudible moan.

“This is delicious.” He opens his eyes as Victor sits down opposite him. “Thank you.”

Victor smiles again, and nods. “You are most welcome.”

They eat in relative silence for long minutes, the only sounds their forks on their plates and their chewing. John looks down at his plate and hopes that he can finish before Sherlock comes in.

“He’s out right now.”

John looks up, frowning. Victor shrugs.

“I know that look. I’ve worn it many times myself.”

John licks his lips and looks back at his plate, pushing some of the eggs around with his fork, abruptly not hungry. “So… you two, you were… involved?” He keeps his eyes on his eggs.

Victor is quiet a moment. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so John closes his eyes and huffs a sigh. “Are you… still involved?”

He opens his eyes and stares Victor down across the tiny table, feeling the weight of yesterday bogging him down. Victor shakes his head.

“No. We split up shortly before we graduated uni.” He sounds sad, and John feels like an arsehole, and he doesn’t really know what to say to that.

“Probably spared yourself in the long run.”

Victor snorts softly. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

John looks at him again, curious. “You didn’t have to watch him die, only to find out it was all a lie.”

Victor licks his lips and tilts his head. “No. I had to sit two seats away from him on our graduation day, and know that I could never again talk to him.”

John’s jaw clenches. “But you knew he was safe. Alive. You knew he was alright.”

Victor picks up a small glass of juice and takes a sip. “And then I read the papers.”

John stands up, grabbing his plate. “Right. Of course.” He takes it to the sink and sets it down a touch harder than he’d meant to. He whirls back to Victor, who is halfway out of his seat, looking shocked and… concerned, really. “Thank you for breakfast. And the room. I… appreciate it.”

Then he forces himself not to run from the kitchen as he makes his way back to his room.

+++

He spends the rest of the morning ignoring Mycroft, and swearing to himself that he is not thinking about Sherlock, about where he’s gone, about who he might be facing down. Tells himself that he doesn’t care if Sherlock ends up getting himself hurt.

He is, of course, lying to himself.

+++

Late that afternoon, there’s a knock at John’s door. He opens it to see Mycroft standing there, with a very put-out Victor standing just behind him.

“Good to see you, John.”

John doesn’t move. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft looks past him into the room. “May I come in?”

John straightens his back slightly. “No.”

Mycroft nods, as though he’d expected that, as though John was entirely predictable. “I simply came to enquire as to the nature of your injuries yesterday.”

John holds up his left hand. “No stitches. Couple plasters. Anything else?”

Mycroft looks at the bruise on John’s left cheek, light enough to be mistaken for a shadow if he didn’t know the truth. “No. I suppose there isn’t.” He tips his head forward. “Have a good day, John.” He turns to leave.

“Is Sherlock…” John curses himself for being unable to leave it alone. Mycroft glances over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised questioningly. “Is he… alright?”

Mycroft regards John a moment longer. “He’s quite safe, I assure you, John. He’ll be touched to know you asked after him.”

John snarls. “Go fuck yourself, Mycroft.”

Mycroft only smirks, raising his umbrella to Victor in a salute, before making his way back down the stairs.

Victor looks at John apologetically. “I tried to get him to leave you, but…” He throws his hands up. “Mycroft certainly doesn’t answer to me.”

John swallows. “Yeah.”

Victor shifts on his feet, looking like he wants to talk. He doesn’t, though, and a moment later he walks away, mumbling that if John needs anything to just make himself at home.

John closes the door on Victor’s retreating backside, punching it as hard as he dares with his right hand.

+++

It’s after dinner when Sherlock returns, looking tired and beaten, and John stares at him for a moment before sighing and walking into the bathroom. He reemerges with a first aid kit, and gestures towards the kitchen.

He does not wait to see if Sherlock will follow him.

As he begins setting things out, Sherlock pulls a stool over to the centre of the room and slides his coat off his shoulders, followed by his suit jacket, and then his shirt. John stares at the dark bruises along his left side, stark and horrific against his pale skin.

“Was it worth it?” He grabs the antiseptic and takes Sherlock’s hand, dabbing at the scraped knuckles.

Sherlock stares at a space above John’s shoulder, eyes glazing slightly. “I’ll know soon enough.”

John nods and works as fast as he can.

+++

He can barely sleep that night. It’s hard, seeing Sherlock walk back in and knowing that he’d been off on some adventure without John. It brought up too many memories of months, years, spent longing and desperate. And now he was here, he was alive, and John is still longing and desperate.

When the door to his room opens at half past midnight, he rolls over and says nothing. Says nothing when Sherlock steps in and sits down on the open side of the bed. Says nothing when Sherlock lays down beside him, careful not to touch.

John falls asleep within minutes.

+++

When he wakes, he’s facing Sherlock.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “Better than I would, if you hadn’t helped me last night.”

John nods, because he doesn’t really know what to say to that. “You haven’t explained any of this.”

Sherlock arches his brow. “You haven’t asked.”

John’s eyes narrow. “Explain, then.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and John’s mouth tightens, and Sherlock looks down at John’s chest as he answers. “Moriarty employed several snipers. One remains.”

John takes a deep breath. “And why are they coming after me?”

“Because I’m not dead.”

John rolls over onto his back and fists his hands on the edge of the blanket until his knuckles are white and his hands ache.

“You should be, though.”

John hates himself for thinking it at all, let alone saying it, but there’s no going back now, no turning around and apologising, because he wouldn’t mean it. He’s angry and he’s hurt and Sherlock _deserves_ to know it.

Sherlock says nothing, just sits up, and John rolls away from him and squeezes his eyes shut and hopes against his damned rotten luck that Sherlock will see right through him and say anything at all that will make this better.

The bed shifts, and the door opens and closes, and John buries his face in his pillow and screams.

+++

John waits an hour or two before he leaves his room, feeling miserable. He goes downstairs and avoids the kitchen. He doesn’t think he could even consider eating something, and no amount of tea will make him feel better.

He finds a small sitting room, and sees Victor perched on the arm of the couch, staring at the telly. There’s a news story about gun shots from yesterday.

John gasps, knowing who the, ‘unidentified target,’ was. Victor turns and sees him, his fingers pushing the power button on the remote with a practised quickness.

“John-”

John turns around and walks away.

He can’t listen to the platitudes. Not right now.

+++

There’s a small room down the hall from the sitting room, which is where John finds himself. It looks like a combination library and study - small desk with a laptop, surrounded by bookshelves crammed full to bursting. For a moment, he remembers the shelves in 221B, and he closes his eyes as he stands there, taking in the smell of the place. There’s a squashy old armchair in a corner, and so he browses the shelves and finds something to take his mind off of reality, and settles in.

He reads and re-reads the same three pages twice before he admits that right now, reality has him firmly in its grasp. He puts the book down and leans forward, face buried in his hands and does his utmost to repress the rage and terror that haven’t really left him since the battlefield, and which have only grown more resilient in the past few days.

When the door opens, he immediately knows it’s Victor and not Sherlock, just from the way it opens and the slightly unfamiliar scent of Victor’s aftershave.

“He wanted to tell you.”

John sighs, face still covered. “But he didn’t. Not at all. He had all of last night - bloody well crept into my room and slept next to me, for fuck’s sake, and not once did he tell me what happened yesterday.”

He looks up, looks Victor right in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“He told you, though, didn’t he?”

Victor looks down, away, and that’s all John needs. He gets up and pushes past Victor, who makes no move to stop him.

He’s back in his room and he stares at himself in the mirror and wonders how he came back from a war-zone only to become a prisoner anyway.

 

+++

Around dinner time, he ventures back out. Sherlock and Victor are in the kitchen, glaring at each other. Neither notices as he steps past the kitchen and pauses, listening.

“Dammit, Sherlock, you _need to tell him_.”

“Stay out of this, Victor.”

Something slams onto the counter top, and John starts, ducks; old habits coming back strong.

“He cares about you, and you give him nothing but pain and worry, and he _still_ cares about you.”

“I _can_ _’t_ , and you know that.”

“No, I know that you decided we were done, and I spent _years_ trying to figure out what I did wrong, what I didn’t do enough of, what I should have done differently.” There’s a shaky sigh before Victor continues, his voice softer. “He deserves better than you ever gave me.”

Sherlock makes a strangled sound, then storms out, right past John where he crouches against the wall.

Before Victor can follow, John stands and quickly makes his way to the sitting room.

+++

That night, Sherlock doesn’t come into his room. John spends the night staring at the ceiling, until the sun rises. Then he rolls over, and stares at the wall.

+++

There smell of coffee greets him as he steps out of his room. He stumbles down the stairs, clutching the banister tightly and blinking repeatedly.

The kitchen is empty save for a clean mug and a hastily scribbled note leaning against it.

_Baker St. Noon. Please come. -SH_

John stares at the note, then pours his coffee.

He pulls out his phone, then remembers he no longer has Sherlock’s number. The realisation drops like lead into his stomach.

He puts the coffee cup down and closes his eyes, breathes in, out, in again.

Then he grabs his mug and the note and goes back to his room.

+++

He should have eaten, he’s realising. His stomach is in knots and all it’s had all day was a cup of coffee, which is threatening to make a reappearance as he stands in front of 221B Baker Street.

His palms are sweating and his chest feels like something is squeezing him tighter and tighter. He can’t get enough air, can’t hear his heartbeat over the rush of adrenaline.

He needs to leave. He checks his watch again - 11:55. Swallowing is difficult, but he does it, and rubs a hand over his face. He turns to go.

“John.”

He looks back to the now open door, and smiles. Mrs. Hudson beams at him, and steps out to embrace him.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

She squeezes him tight for several moments, and he closes his eyes.

“It’s been too long, dear. I’ve missed you.”

He nods against her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I should have come sooner, I-”

But she’s pulling back now, shaking her head and quieting him. “None of that now, love. You’re here now.”

He swallows again and blinks several times and refuses to cry. Mrs. Hudson leads him inside with her arm linked through his, and then he’s _home_ , because that’s what Baker Street has always - _always_ \- been, since the moment he followed Sherlock back after chasing a cab from Angelo’s. The door closes behind them, and he sags against the wall in the entrance hallway, and leans his head back. He can feel the place, thrumming and humming as though alive. In a way, perhaps it is. His hands ghost over the textured wall, and he smiles.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He opens his eyes to see Sherlock standing close. He shrugs.

“You asked me to be here.”

Sherlock nods, looking at him as though he’s not sure why John said this, but he steps even closer and reaches out. The hand on his shoulder is heavy and warm and _comforting_ in a way Sherlock’s hand had always been, and John looks at it for a moment before his eyes turn back to Sherlock’s own slightly timid gaze. His hand drops away, but John smiles at him and he smiles back hesitantly.

They stand there for a moment, then John looks away again and shoves his hands into his pockets. “So. The… shooter.” Sherlock waits. “Are they… gone?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. But they currently think they’re following me on the other side of the city.”

John nods. “And… the person they’re really following-”

“Highly trained MI-5 operative. Mycroft may be unbearable, but he’s useful at times.”

John grins and looks around again, remembering. “So what do we do now?”

Sherlock says nothing at first, then leads the way upstairs, back into 221B proper, and John can breathe for what feels like the first time in _years_.

“Tea, love?”

John looks at Mrs. Hudson and smiles, nodding. “That would be lovely.”

She beams and winks. “Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”

 

+++

The day is long and exhausting without the benefit of John feeling like they’ve really _accomplished_ anything, but he’s understanding a bit better and that’s something, he thinks. Sherlock details what he’s learnt about one Sebastian Moran, the sniper that was told to kill John if Sherlock didn’t jump. Former Royal Marine, impressive kill shots, and not very many misses. John is one of three that have survived after those cross hairs focused on him. He should be grateful. Instead, he’s quiet and withdrawn and confused. Sherlock doesn’t press him, though, doesn’t push and prod until he talks, the way he used to, and John almost wishes he would.

Dinner is Italian - Angelo made them their favourites, packed up and delivered straight to their door. John wonders what kind of danger Mrs. Hudson and Angelo and all the people they’ve cared about are in, if this Moran were to see them, were to know…

“Angelo has been delivering dinner to Mrs. Hudson every few days for the last three years, John. They’re perfectly safe.”

John doesn’t care that Sherlock seems to read his mind - he’s sure it’s written on his face, etched deep in every line and crease of his skin.

“So was I, when you were dead. Then you weren’t, and I wasn’t.”

Sherlock frowns and stabs at his penne a bit harder than necessary, staring holes into the table top.

+++

John’s barely into his pyjamas when Sherlock steps into his room - his old room, here at Baker Street, that looks like it’s barely changed aside from fresh linens and less books. It’s not even dusty, he’d realised, and he wonders at how Mrs. Hudson could keep cleaning everything, waiting for them to come home again. Or maybe Sherlock had been here the whole time, and she’d only been waiting on him…

“Is there…” Sherlock looks lost and uncertain and John feels slightly victorious.

“I’m good.” He pulls back the duvet, grabs a book from the shelf. Settles against the pillows against the headboard against the wall, familiar and welcoming. Sherlock shifts on his bare feet, wet hair dripping slowly onto his white t-shirt. John doesn’t look at him as he opens the book, but he flips the duvet a little lower and that’s all the invitation Sherlock needs, because then he’s climbing in next to John and rolling away from him, pulling the blanket over his shoulder and sighing.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

+++

The feeling of hands on his back and a nose pressed to his collarbone wakes him up. It’s slow, subtle, the sudden shift in his consciousness. His hands respond without input from his brain, because when someone pulls you close you respond in kind, you put your hands on their back and press closer. John knows that. Just like he knows that when someone needs comfort, you don’t ask them what they’re doing, don’t tell them to stop. You give them comfort.

It’s only when he hears and feels Sherlock whispering against his skin that he pulls away, a hand coming up to brush unruly curls away from his face.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up at him, and his gaze is weary and sad, but he presses forward and his lips meet John’s, and John’s eyes flutter closed again as he returns the kiss.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock is mumbling against his lips over and over as he kisses him, and John’s fingers thread through his hair and rub into his scalp and then John’s pushing him back, rolling onto him deftly.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John's mumbling against his neck now, nuzzling into the warmth. “Just... just shut up and let me kiss you.”

Sherlock, mercifully, complies. John kisses him again, tongue darting out to tease at his lips, and he gasps into the kiss. John's hands trail down his torso, up under his shirt, sleep-warm skin soft under his rough fingers. He doesn't spare a thought about what might happen after this.

Sherlock is completely responsive, open and inviting and _wanting_. John makes quick work of both their shirts, his lips finding Sherlock's collarbone and running along it, then dipping lower, kissing along the ridges of his ribs and his sternum. His tongue flicks one nipple experimentally - Sherlock moans and squirms, and John does it again, and again, until Sherlock is panting and making unintelligible noises high in his throat. Then, John does the same to the other nipple.

While he does that, one hand dips just below the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, into his pants, fingers curling against the short, coarse hairs. Sherlock arches into it.

 _“John_...”

Fingers rake against John's bare back, and he growls, hand closing around Sherlock's cock and pulling once, carefully but forcefully.

“Do... do you...”

John grins, proud of having been able to reduce _the great Sherlock Holmes_ to near incoherency. He pulls away from him - just enough to reach over to the bedside table.

“Unless Mrs. Hudson cleared everything out-”

“She did, but... I…” Sherlock shudders. “I bought… more.”

Sure enough, there’s a brand new bottle in the drawer, same brand as John had used before. He stares at it as he opens it, then back at Sherlock.

“Do you really want this?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “I’ve thought of little else, when not being chased by a killer.”

John’s breath leaves him a _whoosh_ , and he slicks up his fingers as Sherlock pushes his pyjamas down his hips. John looks at him for a moment, taking in everything, then reaches down and grasps Sherlock’s cock again, giving it a firm stroke, thumb circling over the head. Sherlock mewls a little, legs spreading more, begging without saying anything.

John reaches down, and lets one finger circle Sherlock’s hole, teases him carefully as the muscle begins to relax. When he slips his finger in, Sherlock clenches around him, hissing out a breath. He waits, lets him adjust, the hand on Sherlock’s cock still working, but slowly and much too light to bring him off. When he feels Sherlock relax around him, he starts to move his finger.

He twists and thrusts and works him open patiently, adding another finger incrementally, then a third. He scissors them and brushes against Sherlock’s prostate and has him _actively_ begging before long.

“Please, John… please, please, I need this, I _need you_ , please…”

John reaches over and grabs a condom, automatically checking the date on it - still good, but just barely. He tears it open and rolls it on, slicks it up and adds more lube to his fingers, working them back into Sherlock without hesitation.

Sherlock pulls him down and kisses him as he removes his fingers and begins pressing in.

John breathes against his lips, and starts moving.

The pace starts off calm and easy, but quickly build to frantic, Sherlock shifting his hips in time with John’s thrusts, urging him on. John could feel it, he was so close, and he reached down to grab Sherlock, stroking him along as he was thrusting. His timing was off and he couldn’t seem to coordinate his hand and his hips to move together, but it didn’t appear to matter because one minute he was gritting his teeth and saying, “Sherlock, Sher… _oh god_ …” and the next Sherlock is clenching around him and covering his fingers with come as he felt himself slide over the edge.

The arm holding him up began to shake, and John collapses on top of Sherlock, breathing hard and eyes closing.

“We should clean up,” he says. Sherlock hums.

John lay there a moment longer, then pushes himself up and stumbles down the stairs to the bathroom, coming back with a damp flannel and a dry towel. He cleans Sherlock off first, taking as much care as he can with sensitive areas, then hands him the towel and cleans himself. He’d disposed of the condom in the bathroom downstairs, but he hadn’t done much else, and he winces as the flannel hits oversensitive skin.

When clean and dry, he climbs back into bed. Sherlock lays still and doesn’t touch him as they fall asleep.

+++

When John wakes, he’s alone. The side of the bed where Sherlock had been is still warm, though, so he couldn’t have been gone long.

John throws on his housecoat, and makes his way downstairs.

Sherlock is in the sitting room, talking on his mobile.

“No, absolutely out of the question.”

John pauses at the bottom of the stairs and listens. He shouldn’t, he knows that, but with everything that Sherlock has done and shouldn’t, he figures this is relatively low on the list of offences.

“ _No_. I won’t risk him- you’re not _listening_ , I said- _dammit, Mycroft_ , I said _no_.”

John frowns, and steps into the room. “No what?”

Sherlock whirls, housecoat flaring like a flamenco dress. “I’ll call you back.” He hangs up, and tosses the phone into the couch.

John leans against the door jamb, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to stop on my account.”

A smile quirks Sherlock’s lips, and he says, “I was done talking anyway. You simply gave me a more polite reason to end the conversation.”

John snorts. “Polite? You? I must still be asleep and dreaming.”

Sherlock’s grin widens. John smiles at him for a second, then clears his throat and asks, “So. What were you arguing about?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing of importance.”

“So I’m _not_ important then.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, and he frowns. “Mycroft’s _opinion_ on… what your role in everything should be, is unimportant. You, however…” Sherlock trails off, starting at him.

John nods. “Alright then. So what do we do now?”

Sherlock looks away. “We don’t do anything. I-”

“No.”

Narrowed, confused eyes meet John’s. He stares back, unwaveringly.

“Come again?”

John shakes his head. “I said no. You don’t get to exclude me. So, where are we going?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, shuts it again, then finally says, “You’re not coming.”

John shrugs. “Then you’re not going.” He steps towards Sherlock getting as close as he dares without touching him. “This guy - Moran - he’s trying to kill me too. If you think I’m going to sit back and just let you go off to get shot at, you don’t know me at all.”

Sherlock stares down at him, then nods once. “Alright.”

And like that, it’s settled.

+++

“He’ll see me here.”

Sherlock is pointing out locations on the map on his phone. John nods and listens.

“After that, you’ll move in from here.”

John nods again.

“Do not - _do not_ \- shoot him, John.”

John looks up. “You say that like it’s something I’m routinely doing.” Sherlock stares back, his lips twitching ever so slightly. John flushes.

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks away, but out of the corner of his eye John can see him smiling still.

They go over the plan twice more, mostly because Sherlock is certain that John’s forgetting something and John can’t seem to convince him otherwise. There’s a small part of them, John is certain, that doesn’t really want to go outside.

“Mycroft should call in two hours.”

John sighs. “So we still have to wait.”

Sherlock picks up his cup of tea and sips it - it’s gone cold long before now, but it’s something to do. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Then he turns to John, opens his mouth. John crosses his arms and looks at him curiously.

“I… that is, John, I wanted…” Sherlock closes his eyes. “I wanted to… apologise. For last night.”

John snorts. It is incredibly undignified, and it earns him a truly epic scowl from Sherlock.

“You. Apologise. That’s…” John shakes his head. “That’s unbelievable.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists unhappily, and he sets his tea down.

“I-”

“ _I_ told you to shut up last night, when you tried to apologise.”

Sherlock closes his mouth with a loud _clack_ of teeth. He takes a deep breath through his nose, then nods.

“You did.”

“Yep.” John uncrosses his arms, steps close. He puts a hand carefully on the side of Sherlock’s neck. “I probably shouldn’t ever forgive you. For any of it.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “I understand.”

John shakes his head and leans in to kiss him. “No, I don’t think you do. Not really.”

When he pulls away, Sherlock looks confused but pleased, his cheeks tinted a delicate shade of pink.

John lets his hand linger and his thumb stroke over smooth skin for just a moment, then steps away and out of the kitchen.

+++

One hour later, Victor shows up. He hands John a plain looking box. When John opens it, his service pistol is sitting in it, with a fresh, full magazine.

John looks at it, then at Victor.

“You know, I never did find out what you do.”

Victor smiled gently. “I work for the government.”

And then he left.

John had a feeling that once again, _The Government_ was really just code for _Mycroft Holmes_.

+++

It all seems so stupidly simple.

John was going to walk through a park. That was all. He would walk through, on his mobile, and say Sherlock’s name in a pretend conversation with no one at all. Then he was going to go into a coffee shop, and get a drink.

He frowns as he fiddles with his phone.

Stupidly simple. And possibly ingenious. But still.

He sighs, and trusts that Sherlock knows what he’s talking about when he says that Moran will be there, listening and watching.

Then he flips open his phone, and begins walking.

The park is nice, and the pedestrian traffic is sparse at this time of day. He makes sure to talk a bit louder than strictly necessary, just in case Moran isn’t sitting in one of the benches he passes.

“Yeah, I was hoping I’d catch you.”

He pauses, smiles.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Sarah.”

He pauses again, laughs a little.

“Well… I mean, it’s just… _Sherlock_.”

He licks his lips - he can still taste him, if he thinks about it.

“No, no he’s not.”

Another pause, an exasperated sigh.

“You don’t have to believe me, but you will have to believe the news reports when they start rolling out. Just thought I’d clue you in early.”

He steps out of the park, looks both ways as he crosses the street.

“Yeah, well, didn’t want you to get upset at hearing it from anyone else. Yeah, alright, I’ve gotta go too. Cheers.”

He clicks a useless button on the phone, and shoves it back into his pocket as he steps into the café. He orders a large coffee, black, and sits down at a seat near the window.

And then he waits for the next signal.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Sherlock is striding through the park, completely unmistakable in that coat, and talking on his own mobile. He glances away, getting up and moving towards the back of the room. He slips through the back rooms, looking everyone in the eyes when they give him questioning glances. He smiles and nods and keeps moving, and they never question it.

Some days, he wonders if Sherlock isn’t right about everyone being complete idiots.

When he steps out, he heads down the alley and out onto another street, coming around to the park from the opposite side of his entrance.

He sees Sherlock, standing there. Sees someone standing in front of him.

 _Moran_ , his brain supplies, _it has to be_.

It’s too easy. Something has to go wrong.

He takes a deep breath, and draws his gun.

He’s almost there - _so close, so fucking close_ \- when he hears the gunshot.

Before he cans top himself, he’s raising his gun and shouting.

Moran turns around.

John doesn’t blink as he pulls the trigger.

+++

He doesn’t know how, but he’s kneeling beside Sherlock, who is pressing his left hand to his right shoulder, alternating between strangled gasps and gritting his teeth as he groans. John’s hands are there, applying pressure, yanking off his jacket and wadding it around the wound.

He can hear voices, sirens, all of it loud loud _loud_ and yet, he can’t understand any of it. All he can see is that Sherlock is hurt - _shot_ , Christ’s sake - and he can’t fix it.

A hand clamps onto his shoulder, and he looks up, snarling.

Victor’s staring at him, murmuring low and calm.

John blinks, and the world snaps back into focus.

“-ambulance is here, John, we need to get him to hospital.”

John breathes out, in, out, and nods.

+++

Sherlock opens his eyes, and John is looming over him.

“They had to sedate you.”

Sherlock swallows, wincing as he does so.

“I’ve got ice chips for you.”

Sherlock nods. John feeds him a few bits of ice, and then a few more.

Then he leans his head down on the bed beside Sherlock’s thigh, and lets himself cry.

+++

Mycroft stops by later. He explains that Victor has been one of his best agents for years now, and that he and Sherlock had come to him with the plan to draw Moran out. John nods and stares at the wall as Sherlock sleeps.

“You could have killed Moran.”

John glares. “You know damn well that if I wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”

Mycroft inclines his head. “Touché.”

The door opens again, and Mycroft turns away.

“I’ll see you around, John.” He looks back. “And thank you.”

John doesn’t reply.

The room is quiet apart from the sound of the machines, and the careful footfalls of one person leaving while another comes closer.

The hand on his shoulder feels too heavy, to warm.

“So you do work for Mycroft.”

Victor’s chuckle is soft and empty. “Only by necessity.”

John nods. “He’s going to have a scar.”

He wants to reach up and touch his own, but Victor’s hand is still on his shoulder and he doesn’t want to touch anyone right now.

Victor squeezes him once, then drops his hand. “He’s alive though.”

John tries not to think about the alternative.

Victor stands there for a few more moments before speaking again. “I’m glad he has someone.” He steps a little closer, and John turns to look at him.

Victor looks sincere when he says, “I’m glad he has _you_.”

And then Victor is gone again, the door swishing shut behind him.

+++

A few days later, John takes Sherlock home.

The first time he sees the wound, he turns away, counts to ten and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Sherlock’s hand on his arm is comforting.

“If I develop a limp, just make me chase a cab through London.”

John punches the wall, and laughs so hard he falls down.

Sherlock sits beside him and holds his hand.

+++

The trial comes along. They don’t go - Mycroft has enough evidence without them, and Victor saw the whole thing. He can testify as a witness.

John keeps the telly off all day, and shuts off his phone when Mycroft finally tries calling him instead of Sherlock.

When he checks his messages, it’s nothing he wasn’t expecting, and he shuts his phone back off.

That night, Sherlock calls Lestrade and asks for case files.

John closes his eyes and listens to him prattling on about the general incompetence of more than half the Yarders.

An hour later, Sherlock pulls him off the couch and takes him to bed. He kisses him lazily, pulls him tight against his body, and whispers, “It was worth it.”

John looks at him through half-open eyes. “What?”

Sherlock smirks. “You asked me that night you patched me up - if it was worth it.”

John nods.

“It was.” Sherlock’s thumb traces over John’s cheek. “Now go to sleep.”

John does. It’s the best sleep he’s had in his life.

+++

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER.**

+++

John can hear Lestrade’s voice in his head, shouting and ranting about how foolish they’re being. He laughs to himself as he runs, and Sherlock glances back only long enough to make sure he hasn’t gone completely mad. Of course, these days, even John isn’t sure about that.

But he’s happy.

Sherlock ducks down an alley, and John scrambles to make the turn in time, his arm flying out to grab the corner of the building and launch himself around it. He knocks over several crates in the process, hurdling over them as fast as he can.

There’s a curse behind them, and John smiles as they round another corner.

Sherlock hops up onto a fire escape, reaching back to help John up. They scurry up it as fast as they can, making it to the roof before they hear their pursuers.

“OYE! Yer dead, Holmes! You and Watson!”

Sherlock reaches out and grabs John’s hand, pulling him along towards the opposite edge of the roof. John looks over - there’s a large skip, open and full, sitting at the bottom. He looks over at Sherlock, who shrugs, and looks back over the side, then back up again.

John’s fingers are numb and his knuckles are creaking around Sherlock’s as he holds on. His eyes sting with blood or sweat or both, he doesn’t even know anymore. He blinks it all away and looks in Sherlock’s eyes and says, “I trust you.”

Sherlock laughs and says, “That’s probably a very bad idea.”

John grins, and says, “Yeah, but it’s still true.”

The sirens are getting closer, but the sounds of their pursuers are closer still.

A gunshot rings out, and they jump.

John’s never felt more alive.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this thing took me WAY longer than I wanted it to, and it was because every time I thought I knew how to finish it, I ended up... not. Seriously. The auction rules stated I was obligated to 500 words. As you can see, I... did substantially more than that. Not novel-length prose that will fill volumes, but enough that it wasn't a one day deal.
> 
> Also tried out a slightly different style for this one, which I really enjoyed using. Challenges, they are good!
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed it, and I can't wait to see what we do next year! :D
> 
> [ **Title from, "My Songs Know What You Did In the Dark," by Fall Out Boy.** ]


End file.
